


When Speaking in Tongues

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He talks, but says nothing. She talks, and says too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Speaking in Tongues

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be my first round entry for [](http://whoverse-las.livejournal.com/profile)[whoverse_las](http://whoverse-las.livejournal.com/) , but I didn't get it done in time. Woe. So here it is. The prompt was _miscommunication._ Thanks to [](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/profile)[stillxmyxheart](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/) for the beta and the cheering as I scrambled to get this done.

_Until the universe is done_  
And the course of time has run  
So we both can both can speak in tongues 

 

 

By the time he realizes he’s done it again, it’s too late.

 

 

 

 

She turns away from him and storms out of the TARDIS, leaving her jacket behind on the pilot’s seat and letting the door snap sharply behind her. She asked. He didn’t answer.

The name Reinette hangs in the air.

Later he finds her leaning on the railing outside her old flat, her mum’s flat still, he reminds himself. There is a tinge of red on the edges of her eyes and a subtle smear of mascara on the apple of her cheek, but he doesn’t say anything about either. Her coat, looped over his arm, hangs heavy against his thigh.

She’s not surprised that he’s there, a sheepish expression on his face and his hands buried deep in the pockets of his long coat. Turning her head, she takes him in before fixing her gaze back on the burning lights of nighttime London.

He knew where to find her, and he knew, like always, that she wanted him to come find her. Moving cautiously to her side, he lays her jacket over the short length of railing between them, like a peace offering. _Sorry I’m daft_ , it says, _but it’s chilly tonight._

She straightens and slips it on with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he says, glancing at her face quickly and trying to gauge just how angry she might still be.

“I know,” she replies. Her arms wrap around her torso, pressing the thin denim against her ribs.

“If you want to talk –,” he starts, but she just laughs humorlessly and shakes her head. “What?”

“You talk all the time,” is her answer.

He tilts his head and frowns, watching as she starts to pace in the narrow space.

“You talk all the time,” she repeats. “Constantly, for hours and days maybe. Even after I fall asleep, I swear you’re _still_ in that console room babbling away to the walls.”

He rubs at the back of his neck and wonders how she knows, _if_ she knows, if she can hear the rattle of his gob down the corridor, to the left and past the kitchen. He thinks about all those useless letters, wiggling their way under her door, piling up and spilling over onto the rug, staining it with their loneliness.

It’s a wonder she doesn’t trip over them in the mornings.

She sighs again, heavier. “All those words, but you never really say anything.” Then she stops and looks at him. “You give me these –these _crumbs_ – these little things –” (Things like _I’m so glad I met you_ and _no not to you_ , she doesn’t say.) “– and I like to think they’re important, that you wouldn’t give them to anyone else. However _stupid_ of an ape that makes me.”

His mouth opens to object, regret that he ever uttered those words burning in his gut, but she doesn’t stop long enough for him to take a breath.

“But they’re like puzzle pieces with no pictures; just blank cardboard, and – and I don’t know how to fit them together into anything that makes sense!”

There are no tears left to shed, so she sniffs and wipes a sleeve across her nose, turning again to lean her elbows on the railing, eyes staring down at the wet pavement below. These are the moments where she wants to walk away, as if that were even a possibility. At worst she might sleep at her mum’s tonight, startling awake in the middle of the night in a too pink room so far removed from who she’s become.

“Oh, Rose,” he breathes, crossing the meager distance. His hand reaches out, finger catching the delicate curve of her chin and lifting gently. “They are important, _so_ important. And you – you’re –,” he stutters and exhales, letting his hand drop back to his side. “You’re Rose.”

He smiles faintly and swallows nervously. Her eyes shut and she slips into his arms, hands sliding inside his great coat as his press against her back and slide into her hair. She knows he doesn’t really get it. He didn’t last time and he probably never will, stupid, daft alien. But he always knows when and where to find her, and somehow that’s enough.

 

 

 

 

 

He watches, calmly, stoically, just like he’s supposed to, like some strange out of body experience, as the other Doctor leans down to whisper in Rose’s ear.

It’s not too late for one of them.


End file.
